The Will of God
by wolfluvermh
Summary: The bible claims that God is pure in heart, but perhaps not everything jotted down on those holy pages is accurate. / one-shot


**~The Will of God~**

"There." From the high position amongst the translucent blue of the sky and the diaphanous clouds lazily swirling around me, I catch sight of a lone building along the side of the road. "Let's check that one out."

Instinct, raw and pure, is what guides me to this lonely building more than any logic. True, the logic exists, as an austere building so far off the desolate road is unlikely to possess any permanent inhabitants, and considering that the angels of the first aerie Raffe and I visited used to patrol here before they were forcefully relocated, any secure gangs are doubtful to find anywhere in this countryside.

Despite my adamant certainty in both knowledge and instinct, Raffe doesn't seem as pleased with the discovery.

He snorts brusquely between the sweeping flaps of his leathery wings. "You seriously think that no one's going to be taking cover in that big a building? That could house a few monkey packs, at least."

"They're called families, and if you hear any, we don't have to touch down," I sigh tersely, not allowing Raffe to get under my skin – although he may whine and protest, he is descending minimally, gradually spiraling down over the fortification like a vulture swooping down for a kill. At least even with his bad temper, he hasn't quit listening to me.

After Raffe had disposed of Beliel in a method too brutal for Paige and I to witness, we had contemplated yet another obstacle lodged in the path of our journey – the swells and ridges of Raffe's muscle work brilliantly while we traverse the human way, but they can only assist him so much in the sky. Paige's weight, his wings' weight, and my own had proved too much for him after half a mile of strain and slow progress, though he despised admitting it.

Argument and bitter dispute had broken out, our verbal fight undoubtedly echoing through the woods we'd paused in. Paige had been slowly burgeoning, gradually handling herself more and more; _that_ I admitted to, but I didn't believe she could follow us from land like Raffe seemed certain she could – she might've been ripped apart and stitched back up by the angels, but she's still human, still just a little girl…

It seems I was wrong.

Things are still difficult in the air without her weight, of course – I have his pair of wings on my back to minimize the resistance against Raffe's flying, but in turn, Raffe's arms don't swallow me, don't envelope me in their gentle embrace as they used to – the wings banish the unity I'd felt the last few times we'd flown together. At that thought, I knit myself tighter to him, seeking the thunderous warmth pounding through his veins that wards off the brumal winds battering us from the north.

"Penryn?" Raffe's low husk of a voice rumbles in my ear, sending a shiver through me. "Are you cold?"

"Slightly," I admit, fixing my gaze on a wisp of a cloud slowly becoming higher and higher above us. "The sooner we get to the building, the better."

All is silent for another placid moment, all except for the soft whooshing of Raffe's wings scooping the wind.

"So, is the fact that you chose a church irony?" Raffe questions in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Because if it is, it's a really lame joke. You shouldn't humiliate Wrath of God with Christianity's incompetence if you wish to continue basking in my presence."

"Ha, ha," I monotone, my focus utterly on what Raffe labels as a church – if it is what he judges it to be, and I see no reason why his unfailing eyesight would be incorrect, our chances of it being emptied are almost doubled. No one wants to be in the house of God when he has abandoned us so.

I try to swivel around, to turn as I had high in the air, attempting to catch a glimpse of the alleged church – Raffe's arms constrict around me before I can turn very far, the steel enclosing me against his chest once again.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Raffe chides. "We're too low to the ground; I wouldn't be able to catch you if you fell."

"As if you'd let me go," I mutter softly, then, louder, "I bet your used to women taking nose dives, eh? Anything to get out of the arms of Raphael..."

"Ha, ha," Raffe mutters, mimicking my earlier tone. "Hilarious." A more playful cadence warps his words. "I hope you realize women scramble over each other to earn a place by my side and stampede, kicking and scratching, to earn a place in my arms. They'd be grateful for my humble concerns, I'll bet, unlike you, ungrateful monkey."

Perhaps it's because of the affectionate way he nuzzles my hair that I don't argue further, or perhaps not – the memories of the last time he'd thought my death was at his expense relive in my mind's eyes, his anguished howls ringing uncannily in my ears. It seems almost like another Raffe than the one with his arms wrapped so tightly around me, but my heart knows that his other self can be drawn out by one foolish move on my part – and his methods of grieving are likely to be even more frightening than the first time through.

After another moment of silence, Raffe speaks again. "You win this one. It seems pretty abandoned. All the windows are intact and the doors are closed. No heartbeats from inside."

Once more, I find myself wondering just how powerful his hearing is, but the knowledge that he and I are more or less on the same side now negates any efforts of fishing for information. Instead, I focus on another object to be marveled over – his claims that the church is unoccupied and intact.

True, most people had steered clear of churches in case they had godly connections to angels or occasionally out of personal offense, but the churches were never left unharmed as Raffe dubs this one to be. Windows were shattered, crosses were torn to splinters, anything with an angel printed on it burned with a stake through the angel's heart.

There was a Presbyterian church just down the street from my old apartment building – my mother had wanted to be close to God, in case her demons haunted her too severely – and I'd had a firsthand account of what had been done to the place of worship, watching the rioters demolish it from the window of my apartment.

I doubt I'll ever forget it – it was the first indication that the angels had changed our civilization for good, and as they cast torches onto the wooden building, it almost felt like an exclamation to the heavens, a sign that we would not surrender to otherworldly influences, but also a cry to humankind, a demand to open our eyes and tell us that our God has left us on our own.

No matter how out of the way it is, I can't believe that anyone would just leave a church all alone in this world. But we can only give our hope its fair chances before we recede entirely, only allow the world a chance to perhaps bear its fragment of kindness to those it deems worthy of such a rare gift.

Raffe's feet hit the ground with a thud, jarring my thoughts and bringing my mind back to the problem at hand. The air down on the ground here is warmer, as if the heat was clutched against the earth by the clawing talons of the trees high above. My eyes wander from the heavy wooden doors and their oiled surfaces to the beautifully sculpted pillars guarding the steps like steel bars and then all the way up to the sole angel perched over the doorway, holding a spear in his hands, his mane of hair flowing fiercely in the winds and his foot braced on the body of twisting winged serpent.

"Probably meant to look like Michael," Raffe estimates, following my gaze. "He's not ever that serene, though; you say that I hardly smile… He was probably scowling black as night when he cast Lucifer from Heaven."

"Probably?" I interrogate, shooting an inquisitive glance sideways. "Weren't you up there in the clouds with all your angelic buddies, watching this happen?"

Raffe shrugs nonchalantly, but hidden aggravation blazes in his eyes. "I don't babysit Michael. He was off on his crusade and I was off on mine. Only he got credit for his righteous deeds whereas I'm still stuck as the 'Archangel of Healing'."

"Alright." I hold up my hands, quelling the smirk threatening to break out over my lips. "So, can you hear Paige?"

Raffe, obviously less touchy with this subject, cocks his head and holds up a hand to silence me. After several seconds of quiet, he shakes his head slowly. "I did not long ago – we probably just outstripped her is all. There's obviously nothing inside of" – he squints down the gravel road leading up to a grungy parking lot, eyes narrowed at a sign down the road a bit – "_Saint Mary's Catholic Church_ with a heartbeat, so it should be fine if you want to explore inside, see if there's anything to pillage. Should be a great place to spend the night, with all the pews. I'll stay out here and listen for your sister."

"Would you?" I smile gratefully at him. "Thanks. If I scream, come running."

"What would you be screaming at? Ghosts?"

"Says the archangel with demon wings," I drone dryly, shooting him an abasing glance. "If you're up and walking around while your buddy" – I jab a finger at the angel topping the roof – "is carved in stone, I'd say ghosts sound just about right."

Raffe smirks. "I am nothing like a ghost. Ghosts aren't real. You know this, don't you?"

"I also know I'm talking to Raphael." I peer at him suspiciously. "Archangel of Healing. How do I know you're not just some angel ghost in denial?"

"Ghosts can't touch people. Can't hold people. You'd have plummeted from my arms if your logic made a lick of sense."

"Hmm." I keep him in the corner of my vision, but I approach the doors calmly. "Well, if any of your ghostly friends spook me, I'll shout."

"And I'll be waiting to swoop in and save you," Raffe answers sarcastically. "Just go loot it, Penryn."

Without another word his direction, I head up the marble staircase leading to the main wooden doors. My feet slap audaciously against the stone, each step I take like a shout in the deathly quiet woods – though Raffe would surely warn me of any predators, I can't help but feel as if, as I scale this stairway of forgotten Gods and treacherous faith, unfriendly eyes are trained on my back, ready to rip into me the moment I let my guard down.

At the top, I stand in awe for a moment – the ceiling above me is pockmarked with geometric carvings of square crosses fit into diamond pallets. The ornate and preserved beauty of it all, even in all the wreckage and the savagery, gives me a lick of hope – God may not be on our side, but is he ever really on anyone's side? Raffe had expressed enough dubiousness on his beliefs to lead me into believing that the angels don't have him at their disposal, either. That thought warms my heart with the slightest burn of comfort – maybe God doesn't pick a side, and the angels are every bit as vulnerable to His influence as we are.

Smiling at the assuaging thought, I set my hand on the cool door handle before me. I half-expect the glossy pair of dark wood doors to be locked, to meet resistance as I enter the church, but none comes. Both doors slide open with sleek yawns as they swing apart in unison, allowing me access to the church.

The first thing that startles me is the smell – the reeking scent of decaying bodies reaches wafts into my nose, released by the stagnant air within the stone church. I cough, cupping my nose from the foul odor, and only then look at what's inside.

I freeze in revulsion. Unwillingly, I take a step forward, to better inspect the scene before me – my mouth drops open in surprise, allowing the putrid scent to bitter my tongue, but the horror of it all prevents me from tasting the sourness. My hands quiver uncontrollably.

Truthfully, the inside is a dozen times more beautiful than the outside – the rectangular room has a sculpted ceiling and brilliant architecture much resembling the elegant cathedrals I'd seen in pictures.

Along the sides of the church are complex rosettes forged in thousands of shades of stained glass and directly in front of me is a magnificent glass portrait of saints and angels and the Holy Spirit, all kneeled and praying before one another – the windows bathe the room in a rainbow of light, their multitude of colors clashing in any other situation yet finding themselves in utter harmony in the house of God. Shafts of beautiful light hover midair, gently quivering with the shake of a tree in the wind or the flicker of the sun above. The imprints of the stained glass windows dance on the ground, mere shadows of the vibrant colors on the walls themselves but somehow just as gorgeous.

Dark wood pews are illuminated by their colorful glows, lined from back to front in neat rows, their green patterned pillows splattered with the ugly brown stains of dried blood.

From the sculpted ceiling hang at least a dozen still ceiling fans set at even intervals around the chamber, and from each of the still ceilings fans hang at least half a dozen human carcasses, swaying lazily to and fro from their constricting collars, the creak of rope echoing around the room, and the beautiful colors of the stained glass dancing over their rotting skin as they dangle from their nooses. Several had slipped from their tethers, now limply reclined over the pews or laying in tangled masses on the tile. Others seem fresher, lacking the decaying flesh hanging from their bones, as if they had joined the horror show later than the rest; perhaps they had stumbled upon the forlorn scene, same as I, and had decided to set themselves to sleep instead of waiting for another to do it in a less tranquil manner, instead hanging amongst a plethora of brothers and sisters for all eternity, watching the windows splash their colors around an abandoned church.

Centered amongst the gory corpses is a single to-scale cross directly above the altar. A crumbled Jesus statue now rests on the altar's dusty face, his pained gaze seeking me from the table. Only his head is relatively intact; the rest of him is reduced to rubble, dusting over the altar, as if someone had angrily smashed him to bits with a hammer. Instead of Jesus, bound to the cross dangling high above is an angel.

The agony plastered over his decaying features is glossed with the rainbow light filtering through. He wears only a white loincloth, so pure and pale that the dark splotches of blood are truly highlighted without the added gruesome touch of the flickering stained glass. Lodged in his chest is what appears to be his own sword, pinning him against the wood. Scrawny ropes loop through savagely hacked holes in his brilliant copper feathers, keeping his wings ajar against the glare of the massive stained glass windows like a menacing demon. Around his wrists trace shackles of black thorns tipped in faded crimson, their thick, tight coils strapping him against the wood as well as any handcuffs could. More thorns bind both his bare feet together at the tail of the cross, wrapping up his calves in tight curls, and more strap his head against the cross's crown.

Crusty dried blood paints down his face and neck from where the thorns had dug into his forehead, making it evident that the angel had not been utterly lifeless as he'd been erected as the church's new savior – he'd struggled, strained against his own sword and the shackles binding him, but it seems that he'd been just as doomed as Jesus Christ when it came to his crown of thorns.

"Your sister's on her way here, Penryn!" Raffe cries triumphantly from outside, obviously pleased to have his plan work out without a kink.

"Don't let her inside!" My shrill voice surprises even me. As the odor barrages me more and more and the sights of the shadows swaying in the rainbow sunbeams kick my stomach with a bout of nausea, I feel my knees buckling more and more, my throat constricting to such a degree that, when I try to call out for Raffe, only a high-pitched whimper escapes.

"Penryn?" Raffe sounds puzzled. Though my vision is locked on the blank glare of the tortured angel, I can envision him wheeling around, his eyes wide and his nostrils flaring. I can almost see him picking up the disgusting scent strangling me, almost see his eyes fly up to glimpse the limp forms of children and elders alike silhouetted against the stained glass, suspended by a fragile length of rope.

"Penryn!" Raffe barks in alarm.

I can't hear his feet carry him up the marble steps so much as I can feel it, and then his arms are around me, draped over my shoulders like a blanket fresh from the dryer. The leathery wings wrap around me like the walls of a cocoon, protection from all that ails me.

Initially, I am all he frets over – I can feel the glide of his deep blue eyes over my skin, feel them attempt to form a unity with my own gaze, but I do not respond to his gentle urges. There are more horrifying things to look at, to stare in horror at between the two black crests of Raffe's wings. Prompted by my unwavering gaze, Raffe turns up his attention to the tortured angel.

"Oh, Penryn…" There is something comforting about the soft shakiness in Raffe's voice, as if he's still trying to reassure me when he himself is afraid. It forces more strength back into my mind, allowing me to meet his genteel gaze and to huddle against his chest, listening to the throb of his heart.

"Don't let Paige see," I whisper, pleading Raffe with my eyes more than my words. "Please, don't let her see this."

Uncertainty flickers over Raffe's face, as if he's unwilling to leave my side even if only hounding my sister off.

"I think she's caught the scent of this awful reek," he murmurs evasively. "She's keeping her distance. I'll wait until she approaches. For now, though, let's get you out of here."

"Why?" My voice cracks. "Why would they all commit suicide? Why would they all hang themselves? How did they capture the angel in the first place? What levels of crazy were they to string him up like that?" Again, I find my resolve shaking, the nausea in my stomach threatening to overwhelm the frail facade of calm I still maintain. With a slow, shuddering breath inwards, I regain myself. "What have we become, Raffe? What's going to happen to us?"

I'm not quite sure what I'm asking him, and I'm also not sure I want an answer with wholly truthful origins.

"I don't know." His voice is grim. "I don't know a thing about this place, or how this happened, or why. But I do know that if a ghost were to dwell anywhere, it would be here, and I think I'll pass up getting beat by you again. Come on, Penryn, let's –" He cuts off abruptly, head cocking. "Your sister's approaching. I should keep her away from this hellhole."

I nod in agreement, still keeping my eyes on his. How I'd like to sink into those blue eyes, to leave this awful world behind and just drown into Raffe! But the pungent stench rips me back into reality and keeps my mind anchored this time.

"Yeah. Yeah, do that. Half-close the doors, too, so she can't get in. I can leave myself, but..." I trail off. "I don't know. I'll be a step behind you."

Raffe seems dubious, but his muscled arm gives me one last squeeze. He rises to his full height. The angel towers above me, the stained glass's shadow falling upon his face and dancing across his features. Even as he marches back through the aisle and to the large pair of wooden doors, he does not release my gaze, nor do I release his – I take comfort in the union, and find that, though I can't drown in the glorious blue, my mind seems to lose track of all the horror around me under the influence of his eyes.

But he breaks the contact with a sudden ferocity, swallowing nervously as he reaches the doors. My shoulders crumple slightly at the loss of unity, but I keep my gaze on the back of his head, watching as he slips out the wooden doors and reaches back to close them in his wake. As he does so, our gazes brush again, and his carries a hint of its usual manner – cocky, corny, and kingly.

The hinges yawn once more as they nearly close fully, nearly lock me in with the dead for all eternity. But a single sliver of white light is cast down the center of the aisle, craning all the way down until the bloodied altar before the single fragment of uncolored light tapers off. However, the single stripe of purity isn't what grabs my attention – it's the heavy, polished doors that do.

Despite my original intentions to crush the squirming mass of emotions writhing in my stomach, I find myself making a small, soft, strangled noise at the sight before me.

On the backs of the heavy doors, someone had written one short sentence, seemingly carved into the glossy surfaces with a dagger. The words are white against the dark wood, frayed with flaking wood chips, and poorly chiseled into the doors, but their appearance alone is enough to thrust the taste of vomit back into my mouth.

_IT IS THE WILL OF GOD._

* * *

**This is one of those "What the hell did I just write" fics. Let me know if you find any errors.**

**I've been holding onto his idea for a while now, something like this, at least, and I'm not too certain I'm pleased with the end result. It'll be a bit out of place when compared to the other fanfictions listed under Penryn and the End of Days, I'll wager, what with the dearth of Raffryn and the gruesome aspects, but I do hope you all enjoy!**

**Ciao,**

**~wolfluvermh**


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